


5th Pass: Drabbles & Deleted Scenes

by astrokath



Series: F'ren's High Reaches [5]
Category: Dragonriders of Pern - Anne McCaffrey
Genre: F/M, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-12
Updated: 2014-03-17
Packaged: 2018-01-01 07:00:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 24
Words: 10,591
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1041796
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/astrokath/pseuds/astrokath
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pre-Regicide drabbles (all written for the drabbles100 challenge):<br/>Friends / Winter / Teammates / Breakfast / Rain / Lovers / Lunch / Dinner / Pink / Strangers / Triangle </p><p>Bonus scene drabble: <br/>Summer</p><p>Longer deleted scenes:<br/>Salvaging the Sea Creature (3.6k, pre chapter 24)<br/>Suicide Wing (2.9k, concurrent with closing scenes of chapter 6)<br/>Some Things Need Saying (2k, unseen scene from the end of Chapter 22/concurrent with Chapter 23)</p><p>Post-Regicide drabbles:<br/>Blind / Deaf / Earth / Fire / Air / Lightning / Water / Fixed / Remembrance</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Friends

**Friends**

 

Firrenor fingered the wher-hide coat carefully. The hide was of the highest quality, and it was lined with a layer of thick felt, dyed in the dark blue colour of the Weyr.

"Aldaminek, are you sure I can keep this?"

His friend grinned, and shrugged his shoulders. "Who else would I give it to? One of the Weyrbrats? Besides, it certainly doesn't fit me any more!"

"I guess not. But I owe you, now."

"Ah, you can make me look good in front of the new goldrider when we've both Impressed. "

Firrenor laughed. "You, look good? Impossible, my friend!"


	2. Winter

**Winter**

He was a candidate.  
  
Shivering in the wintry sleet, Firrenor held tightly to that thought. The High Reaches were colder than _between_ , and if the Weyrlingmaster didn't assign the ranked candidates their chores soon - preferably something warm - he'd be frozen to the spot. Hopefully not kitchen work though - he didn't want any _more_ jibes about being a candidate for the lower caverns rather than a fighting dragon!  
  
And then Sh'vek announced that today, there'd _be no chores_. Instead, they'd get to see Seenth's eggs!  
  
Grinning, Firrenor trooped hopefully into the hatching ground's warmth, leaving the winter's dark chill far behind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Firrenor was a kitchen-brat before being Searched. If he has any hobbies outside dragonriding at all, it's baking pastries and experimenting with pickles.


	3. Teammates

**Teammates**

 

"The Weyrleader has allowed me to ride with you".  
  
F'ren had first heard those words spoken at the weyrling table some twelve days ago. Wing placements took time... but he'd been sitting alone for the last five nights, since he'd heard them last. Tonight, finally, it was his turn.  
  
"Are you sure?" he asked L'sard quietly, unwilling to waste his hopes.  
  
"Would I be here if I wasn't?"  
  
Slowly, trying to keep the elation from his face, F'ren rose. His new wingmates were all watching, waiting for him to join them.  
  
"We won't disappoint you, Sir."  
  
"I know you won't."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the original version of the drabble, but the scene itself got altered for 'Regicide' - in the revised version of events, Sh'vek (who was Weyrlingmaster at the time of 'The Long Winter') held F'ren back for much, much longer than a mere handful of days. I might come back to those days at some point, because that's REALLY where the rot in their relationship set in. You've got young F'ren feeling guilty for A'minek and Audrealle dying, Trath still looking just as much like A'minek's Cassonth as he ever has, and Sh'vek has to look at them and work with them and blame them every sharding minute of every sharding day. F'ren's a long way from being the rider you see in 'Regicide', but he was certainly no less ready for graduation than any other weyrling, and the more Sh'vek attempted to find fault and the harder he worked him, well, the more F'ren learned. How did Sh'vek get away with being such an awful WLM at that point? Well, it didn't help that Weyrwoman Perelane had just died of pneumonia, leaving WL J'bick without much authority to stop him - as the sole surviving goldrider, Maenida was already recognised as WW, and Sh'vek's formal confirmation as the next High Reaches WL was really just a matter of time. Eventually, J'bick did insist that Sh'vek step aside as WLM and do his grieving in private/take it out on the Threads. Sh'vek's response? "I will if you will."  
> Having said all of this, it still doesn't encompass the entirety of the antipathy between F'ren and Sh'vek, much of which is not even rational. There IS a deeper reason...but it's deep inside the borders of Spoiler Land at this stage. Wait and see.


	4. Breakfast

**Breakfast**

 

"Another cold night?"     
  
F'ren nods.  
  
Julan smiles warmly, and hands him the expected mug of Klah.  Strong, not too bitter, though not sweet enough for her own tastes.  She's served him enough breakfasts to know what he wants, and it pays to keep the bronzeriders happy.  
  
Julan doesn't know how much longer she can stand it, watching Linnebith mature, waiting for her or Kiath to clutch another daughter.  F'ren is preoccupied today, but he's her best chance not to be forgotten, not to miss out on a second chance here, or in another Weyr.  
  
She won't serve riders' breakfasts forever.  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This takes place immediately after 'In the dark watches of the night'. Julan was brought to the Weyr as a candidate for Linnebith; F'ren was part of the team that Searched her.


	5. Rain

**Rain**

 

For the fifth time that week, Cloudburst Wing emerged from _between_ into the middle of a heavy downpour. F'ren checked the mist-clad landmarks of eastern Tillek's hills, gauged the prevailing winds, and decided that tomorrow's trivial order from the Weyrleader would most likely send them to Theyf Hold, or maybe the winecrafthall beside it.  
  
Another chance for his wingmen to be soaked to the skin, letting all those petty resentments grow, encouraging the best riders to seek transfers... to think he'd _thanked_ Sh'vek for confirming his promotion!  
  
Well, if nothing else, at least the rain was washing away his illusions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This scene takes place within a turn of 'In the dark watches of the night'. L'sard, the previous Wingleader of Cloudburst has just died...and now it's not *just* F'ren who gets all the Weyr's shittiest chores. Why doesn't Sh'vek just transfer him then, you ask? It's the sane and sensible option...and that's really why it doesn't happen. F'ren isn't *allowed* the chances, the opportunities, or the life that should have been A'minek's. In another Weyr, he'd have them - and that's why Sh'vek keeps him around. Plus, the same SPOILERS as before.
> 
> Note the use of 'week' in the original drabble. I had to do a massive search-replace through all 300k of Regicide to get rid of that one, along with year/turn...


	6. Lovers

**Lovers**

 

Easing his mind away from Ruarnoth's, H'koll rolled over, and laughed. Oh, the fun wasn't over yet.   
  
The rider beside him was feigning exhaustion, eyes closed - trying to avoid as much awkwardness as possible.   
  
Damn bronzeriders were all the same, eager enough at first, but utterly ridiculous afterwards. There were so many ways to tease them, and good betting to be had on how they'd react: bedding the nearest woman, bathing in the lake, whatever. H'koll had won good marks that way in the past.   
  
Grinning, he leaned over to slap the bronzerider's thigh. "Any more where that came from?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, H'koll. Quite possibly my favourite character in the whole timeline. Feel free to make up your own ending for this one.


	7. Lunch

**Lunch**

 

F'ren's wing had scarcely sat down when the first course arrived - a steaming tureen of spiced soup, and white bread rolls baked to perfection. Herb-coated tubers and roast wherry followed, and were washed down with flagons of the better ale tithed by Keogh Hold. Redfruit sorbet to cleanse the palette, then a selection of cheeses.  
  
This was definitely _not_ the normal fare for a fighting wing!  
  
When Julan herself supplied the table with freshly brewed Klah, F'ren wasn't the least bit surprised.   
  
"Fort Weyr has a queen egg on the sands," he said with a knowing smile. "Had you heard?"


	8. Dinner

**Dinner**

 

Every Weyr did its best when it came to Hatching Feasts, sharing out the best of the tithed produce with unstinting generosity. Weyrleaders, Lord Holders, dragonriders and guests, even the drudges -all of them shared the same fare and tucked in with gusto.  
  
There were, of course, exceptions. Some still white-robed, others making the best of things in their gather-day finery, the failed candidates occupied a shadowed table on the far side of Fort Weyr's great hall.   
  
None had much appetite for food.   
  
Wine, however, was a different matter.  
  
Welcoming her growing numbness, Julan emptied another flagon of Tillek red.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, Julan. Poor girl. She becomes increasingly alcohol dependent over the next turn, and eventually leaves the Weyr with a tithe caravan - and not by choice. Three turns later, she happens to be delivering Tillek wine to Igen Weyr when one of their hatchings takes place. A green wanders out of the Sands looking for someone...and Impresses one of the tithe-train's teamsters. Deciding that she's had it with Weyrs and wine, she seduces a minor Holder at the feast and spends the rest of her days comfortably ensconced in his hold.


	9. Pink

**Pink**

 

On Ista Island, spring arrived early.    
  
In the pre-dawn twilight, Alaireth flew steadily northwards.  Soon, the rising sun would soon transform the grey sea into glittering turquoise, and burn away the pale mist shrouding the land.  This was Alaireth's first spring, and Rahnis hoped they hadn't waited too long.    
  
Spotting a familiar landmark, she directed Alaireth to the ground.  As the sun rose, she led the weyrling dragon into the midst of the heavily blossomed Fellis orchard, and together, they waited.  
  
Waited, until the morning's first strong breeze stole through the branches, transforming the air into an ocean of pink.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spot the mistake: Fellis has YELLOW flowers. It's the Blooming Trees featured in Dragonquest that have pink blossoms...


	10. Strangers

**Strangers**

 

Rahnis opens her eyes, knowing what she'll see. Not M'ton. The stranger, F'ren.  
  
"I'm wondering if I should apologise," he says.  
  
Should he?   
  
Rahnis takes a breath, and composes herself as he releases her. The air feels so thick after the thin air of altitude, heights she'd never scaled before.  
  
"Did you have a choice?"  
  
A pause, an apologetic smile, and an honest answer.  
  
"Yes."  
  
"You're still a fool, F'ren."  
  
"Perhaps."  
  
There is doubt in his eyes.   
  
Rahnis is used to making her own choices.  She could ask him to leave, now, and await his dragon elsewhere.     
  
Instead, they talk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one connects 'Paying the price' with 'The Long Winter'. Obviously.


	11. Triangle

**Triangle**

****  
"He was here again, wasn't he!"  
  
It had all seemed like a Harper's tale at first.   
  
Impressing a queen, falling head over heels in love with one of the bronzeriders... and, like most Harper's tales, everything had fallen apart in the second act.   
  
It still suprised her that it was M'ton who was struggling to cope, _weyrbred_ M'ton, who'd won his fair share of green flights in the past. Maybe he wouldn't have been so jealous under other circumstances, but there was a gold egg on the sands this time, Alaireth's first.  
  
She sighed, knowing there was no good answer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, the placing of this one in context with the other stories in this series should be fairly obvious...
> 
> There are a couple more drabbles to come that interleave with 'Regicide', and I'll upload them when the timeline has progressed far enough.


	12. Summer

Summer had never seemed further away, Rahnis thought, shoveling another drift of snow out of Alaireth's weyr and over the edge of the ledge. By her reckoning, it was almost noon - late enough to turn every dragon on the Weyr's rim golden in the sunlight. The ground-level weyrs hadn't seen any sun in weeks, but she supposed she should be glad that it was shining at all. No more snow for a few days... just the biting cold instead. She could freeze in place here in the High Reaches, forever unchanging, waiting for a summer that would never come again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A scene that takes place roughly a week after Turnover


	13. Salvaging the Sea Creature

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This deleted scene takes place immediately prior to Chapter 24 of The Regicide. It got cut at an early stage for reasons of doing nothing for the plot, but enough people have expressed their curiosity that I thought I'd take the time to clean it up and post it anyway.

**High Reaches Weyr**

**22.1.35**

 

The Weyr's lake was more than two thirds iced over, and the chill of snow to come lingered in the air. Rahnis hugged her arms tight to her chest, wishing that the heat of her temper was able to do half as much for her body as it did for her thoughts.

 _I won't swim long,_ Alaireth said. _You could always wait in our weyr?_

The weyrwoman gave a wry laugh. _If I let myself warm up, I'll never cool down. Besides, if I head in now, I'll only end up listening to Egritte whinge about which youngsters are most deserving of apprenticeships, or whether the meatrolls are under-salted, or something equally inane. Or worse, Delene'll put her foot down and demand that I oversee the laundry scrub-down right now._ Rahnis had been putting that job off for almost a sevenday, waiting for a day when her free time coincided with one of Rayne's duty-shifts instead of Varral's. Taking Alaireth out of the Weyr for a well-earned swim and oiling should have been more than good enough reason to delay the chore for another day...but apparently tending to her queen's needs had now joined visits to Holds and Crafthalls as personal visits that she needed _permission_ to make! Faranth, but she wouldn't-

Rahnis let the half-formed thought fade away to nothing as she looked to the sky, drawn by her queen's sudden shift in attention. Flamestrike Wing were passing almost directly overhead, led by J'garray's Pryanth. A few seconds later, the entire Wing blinked away.

 _They go to Nerat,_ Alaireth informed her. _A reward for their performance in their drills this morning, though I didn't think they flew any better than Cloudburst myself._

It would be close to sunset, Nerat-time. The sea would be pleasantly warm, the wind would be light and humid and soft instead of bitter and biting, and the company of an entire Wing of dragonriders was arguably more than _suitable_ escort for a weyrwoman! She could feel her anger rising once again. _And to spite us, don't forget._

 _You did tell Ormaith's rider that Telemath's C'nir had more right to wear a Weyrleader's knots,_ Alaireth reminded her _._ _He won't forget that in a hurry._

_No, more's the pity._

Out in the lake, Alaireth rose to her feet and shook her wings clear of the water.

 _Faranth, love,_ Rahnis sent swiftly, _don't rush your swim for my sake! The way I feel right now, it's probably better if you make it a long one._

 _Ormaith says his rider requests your presence,_ Alaireth said, wading back towards the shore _. I can swim later._

_Did he now? Where?_

_He'll meet you out in the bowl, opposite the infirmary weyrs._

The walk across the bowl did little to warm Rahnis up, and several long minutes of waiting for Sh'vek to make an appearance thoroughly undid even that small benefit. “Not going to Nerat, then?” she snapped when he finally deigned to join her.

“Too warm for my liking,” he said, rubbing his gloved hands together. “Besides, the Weyr's accounts are in desperate need of my attention. There's always much to be done, and I could do with your help today.”

“Balancing the accounts?”

Sh'vek shook his head. “Of course not. I'm not Delene! But if you're still interested in an excursion to the coast...?”

Rahnis looked up at him, curiously. He was smiling slightly, but the expression didn't entirely reach his eyes. So, it probably _wasn't_ going to be an offer of joining his Wing in Nerat, or even an easy errand. “Go on.”

“Thunderclap found something interesting on their sweep. Vallenka's mentioned such things in passing before, and I know how familiar _you_ are with obscure references and records. Ormaith's showing Alaireth the visual now.”

Rahnis closed her eyes, the better to concentrate on the details of the image in her queen's mind. Scattered outcrops of rocks, rising above a rough sea. A small fishing vessel, struggling against unfavourable winds, coloured banners streaming from its mast. Salvage and assistance, that was what those colour-combinations meant, but the square of white cloth bordered in the Weyr's dark blue, flown to attract attention from any passing dragons, was missing. Not the boat, then. And then she saw it: a large, pale shape against the darker colours of water and wet rock, bloated in its mid-section and tapering to a long, ridged tail, net-limbs splayed out to either side. “Yes, I know what that is,” she murmured, opening her eyes, “though I've only ever seen drawings before. They're very rare...and very valuable.”

“Just as I thought,” the Weyrleader said. “It will be a pleasant change to see you using your expertise to the _Weyr_ 's profit for once. I'd like you to supervise the salvage efforts, Rahnis.”

She frowned. “Butchering a deep-dweller can't be all that different to a herdbeast, not once you've got through the skin.”

“Then it shouldn't be beyond you, should it?”

And that put an end to _that_ part of the conversation. “What are the tides doing? It won't be a quick job, even with a whole Wing working on it.”

“High water was about an hour ago. G'dil took Thunderclap back that way to check on it again, and it's very much still there.”

Rahnis nodded thoughtfully. “So we have until sunset to get it secured, and we can finish the job properly over the next few days.”

“It's a little more urgent than that, I'm afraid.”

That could only mean one thing. Rahnis looked up to meet his gaze. “Thread? How close?”

“Those islets are right in the fall's path. The whole thing'll be gone in a matter of hours, unless we can retrieve it first...and the Weyr needs the marks. As for you...” He paused, looking thoughtfully down at her. “G'dil thinks he's going to get a share of the profits...assuming there are any. I was thinking you might like the opportunity to volunteer for a few extended sweeprides as your reward?”

So, he _did_ know that banning her from leaving the Weyr wasn't something he could enforce...and that was how he meant to break the impasse, was it? “If they're at a time and place of my choosing, Weyrleader, then yes.”

“I suppose that's acceptable. Just so long as you keep the watchdragon fully informed.”

 

 

 

Twenty minutes later, she and Alaireth were on their way to what promised to be a particularly nasty patch of water a half day's sailing off the Tillek coast. Rahnis had gathered three full-sized belly nets, now safely stowed within the fourth already slung between Alaireth's legs, along with hooks, ropes and as much butchering equipment as she could find. She'd already been wearing her work clothes, but knowing how wet she was likely to get, she added an additional two layers of knit between her shirt and her oiled wherhides.

The queen crested the rim, ascending into a bitter blast of air from the northwest. Rahnis shrank down in on herself as tightly as she could manage. _Any change in the conditions?_

 _Just the waterline,_ Alaireth said. _Here._

Heggith's visual showed the sea boiling furiously around the shoals, sending sprays of white high into the air and freezing onto anything it touched. Dragonlength-long tendrils of fast growing ocean weeds lay limply across the stretches of exposed sand that ran between the wet rocks – the corpse of the deep-dweller was wedged half in and half out of one such sandy channel – while blistered expanses of clingers demarked the relative safety of the high tide mark. Going by the extent of the sea-life clinging to them, those particular rocks had long been ignored by Thread, but in a matter of hours the whole expanse would be scoured bare once again. They would have until then to secure their prize.

Rahnis held the visual as they went _between._ She was starting to think there _was_ some truth in the old joke – she could never imagine describing the darkness as warm, but it did seem as though the deeper cold of _between_ wasn't half as piercing as the icy bite of wind-chill back at the Weyr. The skies above the western seas, thankfully, were only unpleasantly cold rather than outright numbing – even at the altitude they'd arrived at. Alaireth spiralled down, giving Rahnis a fine opportunity to survey the scene. Thunderclap's dragons were scattered over a large area, making use of whatever perches they could find. Heggith had claimed the tallest outcrop of the shoals, almost half a mile away from where the dragonriders were working, which didn't strike Rahnis as a particularly sensible choice.

 _There_ , Rahnis thought, concentrating on a flatish expanse close to the water's edge on the lee side of the shoals, presently occupied by two greens and a blue. The dimpled platform was covered in short, fast-growing patches of slimy blue-green weeds; she knew the type from Ista. Thread would scour it back to bare rock maybe once or twice a turn, but drown in the higher seas, fertilising the re-growth. Alaireth's claws would have good enough purchase on the rocks beneath, but she'd need to tread carefully herself; the main advantage of the site was its proximity. _Erabelth and Tindath won't mind moving for you._

As the green and the blue obligingly winged away, one of G'dil's riders clambered into view to perch on the sea creature's back. Rahnis mentally revised the time it'd take to get the job done; Faranth, but she hadn't appreciated the true scale of the beast! The deep-dweller's pale body was freshly marred by a long dark line, as well as smaller gouges weeping dark green ichor. One of the net-limbs had already been cut half-way loose, but the thick cartilaginous bones had proved too awkward to saw through with belt knives alone. One of the riders was bashing at it with a rock, now. A handful of other riders were clustered on a bare patch of rock a little further off, while the rest of the Wing were more widely dispersed over the shoals, busy chipping at clingers with belt knives or gathering weeds.

Rahnis dropped down from her queen's back and instantly lost her footing, one boot sliding out from underneath her and straight into a small rockpool. The rest of her would have gone the same way if she hadn't had Alaireth's belly-net within arm's reach.

_Rahnis! Are you alright?_

She hauled herself carefully upright, wincing at the sudden ache in one thigh.There was sand on the sole of her boot, as well as traces of weeds. _I think so. I'll go more carefully, now I know how bad it is._ She reached up and unfastened the hooks that held the belly net in place. _Anyone coming to help with this yet?_

_I've asked Kanleth to pass the word._

P'lindis' bronze bellowed loudly, but otherwise made no move from his own perch. On a neighbouring islet, a brown and a blue unfurled their wings and launched into the air, swooping low above the riders working close to the water's edge. Rahnis watched as first one man, then a second, reached up and grabbed hold of dangling straps as the dragons passed overhead, hanging suspended for the duration of the short flight over the treacherous rocky ground to where she and Alaireth were waiting. Both riders had more luck on their landing than she'd done, forutnately. The two dragons looped around twice more, and four more riders followed the same way as the first. G'dil was one of the final pair. Hauling hard on one of the loose straps, he set himself swinging right before he let go, and landed flashily half a length away from Alaireth's head. Rahnis would have been genuinely impressed by the stunt if it had taken place back at the Weyr, but the layer of drying slime that coated G'dil's backside and one full leg of his trousers was more than adequate evidence that the man already _knew_ what an idiot he was being, but had chosen to show off regardless. If Thunderclap returned to the Weyr with everyone's ankles intact they'd be luckier by far than they deserved.

G'dil grinned broadly at her as he straightened up again. “Rahnis! I hear you know all about these monstrosities.”

“Only from drawings, and the odd body-part brought back to Ista Hold on the ships when I was a child.”

He stepped carefully over the weed-ridden rocks towards where his wingmen were sorting through the contents of Alaireth's belly-net, and picked out a hand-axe. “Tough things,” he muttered, testing the blade's edge with his fingertip before stuffing the haft behind his belt. “I swear there's a man's length of greasy fat to get through before we hit the meat. Good eating, is it?”

Rahnis chuckled. “Hardly! It won't kill you by morning like a red-stripe tunnelsnake would, but you won't be interested in eating anything _else_ for a while.”

The bronzerider's face fell. “But Sh'vek said the fardling thing was _valuable_! Faranth, and I've already sent L'grain to the Crafthall to spend my share! Shells, if he's bought it already....”

G'dil hadn't realised he was out here as a punishment? And he thought he'd be getting a cut of the Weyr's profits, too? Rahnis resisted the urge to roll her eyes. “Oh it is. They're more than worth the salvage effort – a fisherboat can make its fortune even from a small one. The skin is rough – like it's covered in countless minuscule teeth that aren't easily blunted. That alone is worth ten times its weight in marks from any woodcrafter you meet, though it's not easy to cut through.”

“Tell us something we don't know, weyrwoman!” one of the other riders muttered.

“The fat can be rendered down to oil,” Rahnis continued, “and if you can hack your way through the smaller fin-bones, there's any number of uses for them. Same with the teeth. The harder bones inside the beast are layered, like a shell, or maybe tree-rings. It's highly prized for decorative work.”

“Decorative work?”

“Belt buckles. Hair ornaments. Inlaid trinket boxes and table-tops. And corsetry, of course. The sort of thing a Hold lady would pay a premium for.”

“Oh?”

The hint of disparagement in G'dil's voice was well and truly gone now, and Rahnis hoped that the prospect of impressing Delene with further gifts would motivate the man through the messy work to come. “Assuming we work fast enough. Aside from the skin, the best of it is pretty hard to reach.”

G'dil spun on his heel and clapped both hands together. “You heard the weyrwoman! Let's get moving. D'zannis and H'ro, get the saw and take the fins and its head off. Zelayne, get over here and start figuring out which of the nets Rahnis brought will be big enough for the head. The rest of you, take the machetes and start hacking your way in! Quickly now, or thread'll be on us before we're through!”

Hadn't he listened to a single thing she'd said? “G'dil, we won't have time to butcher it properly here,” she said, hastening to follow him. “Even getting the skin off would be pushing it.”

He slowed to a halt and waved his wingmen to carry on without him. “I'm not going to fail, Rahnis! Not today! Today's the day I show the whole Weyr what I'm capable of. If that means hacking an overgrown tunnelsnake-shipfish-Faranth-knows-what to pieces at double-quick time, then by the First Egg I'll see it done if we end up clawing it apart with our fingernails! We'll work in shifts, set up a human chain and-”

“Do you want to hear a better idea?”

“Not if it means bringing another Wing in to help.”

Rahnis shook her head. “Not that. We focus our efforts getting some lines attached securely, and get it back to the Weyr.”

“What kind of deadglow do you take me for? You think we hadn't tried that first of all? That hide of hers might be valuable to woodcrafters, but it's sharding hard on rope. _And_ skin! We barely got it a finger's width off the ground before the first line broke!”

And that, she supposed, was why Sh'vek had sent her all the way out there, instead of simply ordering her to supervise things once the beast's corpse was back at the Weyr. That, and punishing her with the wet and heavy labour ahead. “We need to cut away as much of the skin as we can, and dig through the fat until we reach the ribs. We can hook the ropes onto those. That's how seacrafters do it.”

“Fine!” G'dil snapped. “We do it your way then.”

The first rope was soon secured, but the creature's bones thickened into a broad, spiny plate behind the medial net-fin, making the second line proved exceedingly awkward to place. It was another hour before they'd cut away enough flesh to find somewhere to tie it, but once that was done the remaining ropes were quickly tied into place. By then, Rahnis was sweating on the inside of her clothes and soaked and stinking on the outside. The deep-dweller's ichor had set the exposed skin of her wrists itching, and she was fairly sure that she'd never wear those particular wherhides again. G'dil called in his Wing's larger browns and the bronzes to take the strain of the lines, but once again the deep-dweller's body had barely risen off the ground before one of the ropes gave way.

“It's too fardling heavy!” P'lindis yelled over the crashing of the waves.

"Doubling up the ropes should do it,” Rahnis suggested, hauling a spare coil up onto one shoulder. “Zelayne? If I work on this one, can you see to the others?”

G'dil frowned at the sea-creature's corpse as the greenrider moved away. “I don't know, it still looks pretty well wedged in here.” Gathering up the frayed ends of the broken rope, he started to knot them back together. “A herder's shank should fix this.”

“I'd prefer a whole new rope. Two new ones would be better. Would you mind?”

“H'ro, fetch another rope over, would you?” He picked his way over the slimy rocks towards where Rahnis was working, blocking her light as effectively as a lump of rock. “Thread'll be here soon. We've only time for one more attempt. What about the organs? Are they worth anything?”

Rahnis shrugged, then resumed threading the rope through the lacy holes in the creature's rib-plate. “Not that I know of. Would you mind moving, G'dil? The next part's a bit awkward, and I need to see what I'm doing.”

“Hmph. Think I'll go and make myself useful then,” he muttered.

The second of the two new ropes was almost fully secured when Rahnis heard the wet thunk of a blade striking flesh. She looked around to find G'dil wielding an axe only a few metres from where she was. “What are you doing?”

“Being useful!” he said, swinging the axe again. This time, it glanced off one of the creature's spiny protuberances, skittering towards the rocks. “Ah, shard it,” G'dil muttered, repositioning himself for another blow. He prodded the creature's flesh with one foot, then nodded to himself as he found a soft spot. “Cutting a hole...big enough to get out all the bits we don't need. Eviscerating the fardling thing!”

“ _Eviscer_ -”

The axe fell again, slowly and inevitably. The deep-dweller's skin dimpled, and then the axehead slid through the dark green fatty flesh, and in. The flesh seemed almost to ripple, and then there was a noise like a flatulent gulp and a sudden split appeared in the creature's side, a gaping wound a full arm's length in size that broadened even further under the flood of Faranth-knew what that was being disgorged from the creature's ruptured stomach.

Rahnis yelped and tried to duck, but it was already far too late. A tide of noxious salty fluid, brown slime and greasy, partially-digested drowned threads struck her at waist height, and all her instinctive attempt to avoid it achieved was to make her lose her already precarious footing. She landed hard on the ground and slid the best part of a dragonlength down towards the sea, swearing loudly at G'dil the whole while.

 _Rahnis? Are you hurt?_ Alaireth was already in the air, quick to come to her rider's aid.

“Bruised. Filthy.” Rahnis heaved a loud sigh, and shook a clump of something she didn't want to inspect too closely off her arm. She'd _definitely_ need new wherhides now.

G'dil crouched down beside her, and offered her his arm. “I, ah...sorry, Rahnis. Didn't expect that to happen.”

“No, you're not quite that vindictive, are you?” she replied. Not like fardling Sh'vek! “Ah well. I suppose it'll be easier to lift now. And once we've got it back to the Weyr, there'll only be a few more hours work to go.”

“That's the spirit. Think of the marks, weyrwoman! It'll all be worth it in the end.”

Rahnis forced a smile onto her face. “Oh, I am, G'dil, I am. Counting my marks is the only thing that's keeping me going right now.” Marks of imagined chalk, not of wood; marks that traced the passage of time from the present moment to the day when everything changed for the better.

It would _all_ be worth it then.

 

 

 

 


	14. Suicide Wing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This isn't really a fic, more of a ficlet. It's a bonus scene from Chapter 6 of The Regicide. Ginny mentioned that it might be useful for the reader to have access to a bit of a Who's Who for F'ren's new Wing, so here's the fictionalised account of his first sight of the winglist in question.

He'd been wondering if it would happen, if he'd end up familiarising himself with yet another new Wing in the space of a month. He hadn't expected to be _leading_ one. So what if he'd only been second choice for the job? Snowfall was _his_ Wing now.  
  
F'ren closed his eyes and leaned back against the sheer rock-face just outside Kiath's weyr, damping down his curiosity as well as he could manage. He hadn't so much as glanced at the actual winglist yet, but he knew it wouldn't be good _. Just let me savour this a little more, Trath,_ he told his dragon. _Moments like this are few and far between._  
 _  
Moments like this would be better spent reading,_ Trath sent back. _Ormaith says the Weyrleader wants to watch our first drill. Today._  
  
Sure enough, when F'ren opened his eyes again he found the Weyrleader's bronze watching him intently. “If he wants to see my reaction,” F'ren muttered, loud enough for the bronze to hear if he chose to, “he can sharding well come down to the Lower Caverns for it.” His own weyr would've been more private, but the Caverns were warmer and better lit, and he already suspected he'd need the crutch of some strong klah when he was done.  
  
Back inside again, he picked up a stool from the semi-circle that surrounded the main fireplace and dragged it across to a far quieter spot directly beneath one of the suspended glowbaskets. Sitting down, he opened up the large hinged slate and started to read.   
  
The first two entries came as no surprise. His new Wingseconds, D'barn and H'rack, had both flown in Snowfall under Ev'les: D'barn as a long-established Wingsecond and H'rack as one of the handful of younger bronzeriders in the Weyr who spent much of their time in the Weyrleader's company, hanging off his every word. The last of his new Wing's bronzes was T'been's Benth, a transfer from F'ass' Wing. A rather aggressive pair, they were, notably keen to impress the Weyrleader. Well, maybe he could convince them to try to impress _him_?  
  
G'treb's Dondrith, the first of the browns on the list, was one of Trath's few surviving clutchmates, but F'ren and G'treb had never got on well. T'forgil and R'dallan came next, two relatively young brownriders who'd both flown in Snowfall under Ev'les ever since their weyrlinghood. F'ren was hard pressed to even put a face to T'forgil, unless...yes, the pale young man with little more than empty _between_ between his ears. R'dallan, he knew. _Everyone_ knew R'dallan. In small quantities, the brownrider was quite good company: enthusiastic, amusing, and always in good spirits. The trouble was, he didn't _stop_. Ever. And his brown was just as bad, careering hither and thither all over the place, with little regard for the Threads that everyone else was trying to flame safely. Would it be better to place Tolcth close to him, where Trath could curb his enthusiasm, or keep him to the edge of their Wing's formation? F'ren shook his head, dismissing the question for a later moment.   
  
The next brownrider on the list was T'shell. F'ren was only passingly familiar with the young man. He was a Deluge rider, wasn't he? Feeling uneasy, he double checked the six remaining browns: yes, aside from P'lok and Barruth and St'ram and Idmath, the two pairs newly graduated from weyrlinghood, they were _all_ newcomers to Snowfall. Browns and bronzes made up the core of any Wing, and with more than half of them – himself and Trath included – being unfamiliar with the bulk of their peers, Snowfall would be off to a very shaky start indeed. F'ren cursed Sh'vek under his breath, knowing it was unlikely to be for the last time.  
  
The recent weyrlings might be unknown quantities, but the remaining browns were not. J'an's Zallackuth was barely flightworthy, and M'dex's Terbroth was as agile as a lump of rock. By contrast, I'ressack and Athreth were a very solid, reliable pair who had transferred into the Wing from Flamestrike. Close friends of Sh'vek, in fact. Well, that was one dragonpair he could trust to anchor the Wing from mid-flank. Benth would have to be the other...  
 _  
If we place him somewhere between Corhoth and Zallackuth perhaps?_ Trath suggested  
 _  
You think that'll be enough to steady him?_  
  
Trath gave a mental shrug. _You could give Dondrith the responsibility, but then T'been would feel slighted and you'd have two riders who dislike you.  
  
Oh, I've much more than two, Trath_ , F'ren told his bronze as he scanned the rest of the list, feeling more and more anxious with every new name. _Sh'pen's one of our blueriders. Ah, shells! F'sigger and Avret as well?_ Then, he grinned. _But it's not all bad.  
  
Ulleth's woman? _  
  
F'ren's grin broadened. _Denna, yes._ Trath's mind seemed to quieten as he indulged himself with some of his sweeter memories of several turns' back. Denna smiling coyly, laughing in delight, her eyelids fluttering as she-  
  
The face in his memory shifted, then. Sensing his dragon's intent, F'ren's mind recoiled, hard, before Trath could complete the transformation. _Shard it, Trath! Last time you did that was bad enough, but I never, ever want to see that face in my bed!_  
  
Out in the bowl, the bronze rose to his feet and started to stretch out his limbs. _If you're going to let yourself be distracted, shouldn't you at least be honest about the person providing the distraction?  
  
I'm not a_ complete _deadglow, dragon!_ F'ren gave his head a slight shake then turned his attention back to the slate on his lap. _Blues next._  
  
The first few blueriders actually looked relatively promising. M'shear, O'slant and Sk'barn were all established Snowfall riders in their early twenties. The only obvious potential problem was that Sk'barn was Wingsecond D'barn's son. B'ly and E'dar were newly graduated from weyrlinghood, and only time would tell him what they were made of. After that, the winglist rapidly worsened. R'sem was a Deluge transfer who currently held the record for the largest number of appearances on the Weyr's discipline-roster in a sevenday, only narrowly edging out F'ren himself. W'rint had his head in the clouds most of the time and was likely to lose it there one day. J'lorval's head was in his pants, more often than not, but if rumour was to be believed he'd recently picked up something nasty that had taken up permanent residence in there. Sh'pen's Flinth had come from the same clutch as Trath, but although they'd gotten on very well as weyrlings, their friendship had died with A'minek. C'tis was a drunk. Stelarna was a woman. G'nedden, another one of Snowfall's original complement, was a sour chap, still in denial about his own innate preferences...and he _hated_ Stelarna. A'tobin was an over-emotional wreck, and one of the Wing's two token Searchriders.   
_  
What do you think so far_ , Trath? F'ren prompted. His bronze's mind felt more than a little distracted. _I hope you're not pestering Alaireth!  
  
You told me not to, didn't you? Besides, she's all the way up on the rim, sleeping in the sun. As for what I think, I think you should keep reading. There are some good dragons there, but how we split the shifts will depend on the greens more than anything else.   
  
Right then._ F'ren let a note of teasing colour his thoughts. _You'll be paying attention to the greens, I expect._  
 _  
I've kept my mind on the Wing far better than you, F'ren. I've already asked Gath to ask Ev'les about what we should expect from B'ly and E'dar_ , Trath added sagely. _Gath says we should know that B'ly is weyrmated with Mallangth's Samdra, and that E'dar's fine so long as he doesn't go between too often.  
_  
Not sure he'd heard them correctly, F'ren mouthed his dragon's words then repeated them back to the bronze in disbelief. _So long as he doesn't go between too often? Seriously, Trath? Seriously?  
  
I'm only telling you what Gath told me.   
  
Did he say what happens when he does?   
  
Headaches, Gath says. And he sees things. Threads that aren't there, the sun in the wrong place, and other things that Ofteth can't make sense of._  
  
Sighing to himself, F'ren licked a finger and circled E'dar's name on the slate. _Fardling doesn't make any sense to me, either, but I'm sure we'll see it for ourselves sooner than we'd like, eh? So. The greens next? They can hardly be worse than the blues..._  
  
Samdra's name was first on the list – the ordering was very haphazard – followed by Z'gorran and Nooth, then bone-idle A'den and Chirrith and Avret and Vorth. F'ren had never had much time for Avret in the past – she _really_ wasn't his type – and had even less time for her now. Br'fort had almost eighty turns and was as deaf as a post. Age was catching up with P'colt and R'mindro almost as badly as it was with Br'fort – and if R'mindro wasn't half blind, he was doing a sharding good impression of it.  
  
 _Pluth and Endath still fly well enough_ , Trath said. _Aballath, too. They may be old, but at least they're experienced.  
  
For as long as they last. We'll need three shifts in Threadfall with this lot's stamina. Actually... _ F'ren quickly tallied up the ages noted down on the slate beside each of his new wingriders. _You know what, Trath, I think they're all more experienced than I'd expect. Except the ones who aren't, but there aren't as many of those as there ought to be._  
 _  
Isn't that good?  
  
Might be, or it might just mean that they've lived long enough for their deficiencies to become obvious. Still, deficient or not, they've all survived this long. That's something in the Wing's favour, something we can work with, I hope._  
  
F'ren traced his finger further down the slate, passing Denna's name, and then Ludrenne and Frynth. _Looks like Sh'vek's given me more than the one distraction, Trath._ Although, with a woman as desirable as Ludrenne in his Wing, he should probably be more worried about the effect she had on the _other_ riders in Snowfall. _Add Ludrenne to the list of likely problems, Trath.  
  
You mean the list you're already holding?  
  
Yeah. That one._ F'sigger was the next name along – the first transfer from Sh'vek's Flamestrike. F'sigger was conservative and loyal, and a man who took pedantry to an art-form, but at least he and Puteth would be an asset in Fall. H'zayn and Neth were similarly experienced, but far less reliable. T'lir...ah, that would be why Z'gorran was a Snowfall rider now. He and T'lir despised one another. Ajacka and S'larray had both lost weyrmates following Maenida's injury. Many riders had, but F'ren guessed from their presence in his Wing that they'd both be coping worse than average. Tr'laggan, Vartine, N'mark, P'retton and Th'kadric had all flown in Snowfall under Ev'les. Tr'laggan was a pompous fart who wasn't half as funny as he thought he was and could almost certainly be relied on to report back to Sh'vek on anything F'ren said. Vartine was the Wing's oldest female rider, who gave every impression of being in a permanent state of proddiness. Trath had flown N'mark's Chessalth a little over a turn back, and although Chessalth had made a very good flight of it, F'ren had been careful never to let Trath chase her again: N'mark obviously hadn't taken well to the experience. Unfortunate, for a greenrider. Also unusual, given that they'd already been several turns out of their weyrlinghood by then. Was it likely to still be an issue? N'mark didn't seem to be shy of other men these days...Faranth, his reputation was almost as bad as J'lorval's!  
  
 _It's almost certainly still an issue_ , Trath supplied. _Especially if he's hiding how he feels from Chessalth. She's going to rise again soon, and that might explain her...twitchiness.  
  
Shells, that's the last thing we need in the Wing. An emotionally unstable rider who won't talk to his dragon! Tell you something, Trath, I hope you're wrong.  
  
So do I. But I shan't chase her._  
 _  
I should think not!  
  
Nor Th'kadric's Orryth. She's far too silly, and O'slant's Forth is very proprietary over her. There may be trouble if they end up disappointed when she flies. But Norvith is a fine looking green, and I know she likes bronzes.  
  
P'retton's Norvith?_ F'ren shook his head. _I don't think that's Norvith's preferences at play there. You've not seen the way P'retton is around H'rack. Poor man_ , F'ren added, not sure which rider he pitied most: H'rack, for being on the receiving end of so much unwanted attention, or Searchrider P'retton, whose lusts were doomed to be forever unrequited. _If you must chase one of our own greens, Trath...  
  
...then Ulleth would be a bad choice for you.  
  
A flight's a flight, Trath. Spring's a long way off yet, and besides, when else am I going to have the excuse?_ Better to deny himself – and Sh'vek – the pleasure of a brief attachment with Denna than to deal with all the allegations of favouritism that would inevitably result. _What about Frynth?_ he tried. _Or Betchath?_ Vartine might be older than he was, but at least she had breasts!  
 _  
Didn't you see Talliath at the end of the list?_  
  
F'ren had, unfortunately, between K'bud's Gilleath and V'mok's Levreth. There was something... _wrong_... about V'mok, that F'ren had never quite been able to put his finger on, but Ch'rewn's and K'bud's presence in his new Wing was very easily accounted for: the two greenriders had an acknowledged running rivalry over which of them could pull the most extreme acrobatics during Threadfall. Very entertaining for the rest of the Weyr, but considerably less so for the unfortunate whose Wing they were in. _Oh, you spotted her, did you?_   
_  
I can outfly her. Easily.  
  
Your confidence fills me with horror at times, Trath_ , F'ren replied dryly.   
  
_Well,_ something's _doing that_ , Trath sent back. _I'm not sure that it's me._  
  
 _No, Trath. No, it's not._ F'ren folded the two sides of the slate together and re-fastened the strap that held them securely closed. No, the sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach had very little at all to do with his dragon's preferences in greens. No amount of joking would make his wingriders any more suited to fighting Threadfall as a Wing. Only a handful of them actively loathed him personally, but too many of the rest had similar issues with other members of the Wing. Half the Wing was barely fit to fly, for one reason or another, and the few riders who weren't outright incompetent would be the hardest to sway to his way of doing things, and the quickest to report back to Sh'vek. It was an utter disaster, and only likely to worsen once they started flying drills together – Faranth, when it came to _Threadfall_ , they'd probably fall to pieces before their first sacks were emptied! If not sooner...  
  
The klah he'd been planning on was more likely to make him ill than to offer any useful stimulus, F'ren decided. _Trath? Do you remember what they used to call our Wing, back when we led Cloudburst? This one is worse. Much worse.  
  
I know._ The bronze sent back a burst of reassurance. _Then we'll just have to be better, this time.  
  
We'll have to be_ much _better._ He rose slowly to his feet and dragged his stool back towards the stack by the wall. _I wonder what Rahnis' M'ton would have made of them. Whether he'd have had any bright ideas about how to make a decent Wing out of them all...because I'm not sure that I do. Not one sharding thing._ He'd have another hour or so before word of their Wing-transfers got round, before he'd have no excuse but to assemble them all for their first proper drill as a Wing. Perhaps he'd think of something. Or perhaps he should put some truth into his old Wing's moniker, and save Thread the trouble?  
  
 _Don't be ridiculous,_ Trath sent back instantly. _You'll think of something. But if you are curious about what M'ton would have done with them, you could always ask Rahnis before she leaves. You'll have to be quick though – Alaireth's on her way down right now._  
 _  
Oh yeah, because that'd be... Wait. Trath?_ F'ren's wordless request was rewarded by his dragon's sight of Alaireth descending gracefully towards the bowl. He'd thought the pair of them had lingered in the north out of pique, but Alaireth's eyes were whirling a calm and restful blue; hardly what he'd have expected of a newly jilted queen. “She doesn't know yet, does she?” he muttered under his breath, following the realisation with a quick warning to his dragon not to let anything else slip. _Where's Rahnis now, Trath? Could you ask Alaireth for me? Tell her I want to speak to her rider before she leaves. That, and only that._  
  
If she didn't yet know, it was only because Sh'vek – or perhaps Vallenka – hadn't wanted her to. F'ren would happily thwart either one of them, for no other reason at all, but while Rahnis was unlikely to be _pleased_ by what he had to tell her, she might perhaps be grateful to him, eventually. It would all work out to his advantage in the end.  
  
If – _if_ – he and Trath and the rest of their Thread-spawned Wing actually survived that long...


	15. Some Things Need Saying

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> By request from Pat Macken and others - what happened back in the Lower Caverns after Chapter 22 of The Regicide, and somewhat concurrent with the events of Chapter 23

R'fint waited out the last chords of the Harper's melody, then clambered up onto the platform to join him. “Rest your fingers a while, Journeyman,” he murmured through the scattered applause and the background buzz of conversation from the far side of the cavern. “I'd like to say a few words.”

The Harper gave him a grateful smile, set his gitar down on its stand and flexed his fingers. “Any requests for when you're done, Weyrlingmaster?”

“A request, yes! 'Only a green', I think. Something to remind us all of how much Pern owes each and every one of them. And then maybe the Tillek Gather reel...if you're not fed up with that one already,” he added as the Harper's smile stiffened.

Turning away from the Harper, R'fint considered his audience. Only the more serious dancers were still in the middle of the floor, while the other weyrfolk were making the most of a chance to rest their feet. The wine and ale always flowed freely after a hard fall, but the evening was still relatively young. More than half of those gathered were riders, but everyone out there would know to expect a eulogy...and if he had the attention of a quarter of them, it was mostly out of disgruntlement at the interruption to their entertainment. Well, they'd have their entertainment soon enough!

“We lost a weyrling pair today,” he began, raising his voice no more than absolutely necessary to be heard by those within a dragonlength. “L'rem and green Frayroth. L'rem was Searched from Nabol Hold. I imagine most of us riders first encountered him there, turns before he was old enough to Stand.” That raised a few smiles. R'fint acknowledged each one with a glance before he went on. “Weyrwoman Delene aside, I don't think there's ever been shorter odds on a particular Candidate Impressing. When Frayroth hatched, she knew it was L'rem she wanted right away, and she wasn't going to let anything stand in her way. She was out of that egg and across the Sands faster than I've ever seen a hatchling move before, careering past – and scrambling over – hatchlings almost twice her size.” A few chuckles; more smiles. “What I also remember, what most of you might not know, is that even with hatchling hunger and the freshness of L'rem in her mind, she also had the depth of heart to realise that she'd injured Sellelth in her haste, and to express that concern to Kiath.”

The sound of a stifled sob from the weyrlings' favourite corner drew R'fint's eye. Sellelth's N'den, of course, but H'koll and B'risten were both there to give them support. He'd already warned Sh'vek what he was about – blindsiding the Weyrleader was a very quick way to lose one's knots – but he also knew sharding well that continuity in the barracks wouldn't be the only consideration if he went too far. Well, if he did loose his knots for this, at least they'd be in good hands.

A properly respectful silence was finally starting to grow in the rest of the cavern. R'fint made good use of it. “Frayroth had one of the biggest hearts I've ever known in a dragon. If ever I was called into the barracks late at night, she would always be the one other dragon awake and watchful, and you could tell her concern for her siblings was genuine, not just idle curiosity. And she and L'rem were the perfect match that all the Harpers sing of. L'rem didn't come to the Weyr expecting a green, not the way some boys do, and he made no secret of the fact that there was a girl he was sweet on back at Nabol, who he hoped would join us at the Weyr one day...but he didn't let it stand in the way of giving Frayroth everything she needed, and I couldn't have asked for a better example for his fellow weyrlings, especially the other greenriders. Grounded, patient, unflappable, and steady. A conscientious young man who worked hard and cared deeply, a young man whose peers confided easily in him, and a dragon who was sure to join the ranks of the Weyr's Searchriders. I won't tell you they were the best pair of the clutch – L'rem struggled a lot developing the requisite spatial awareness of a dragonrider, but in every other way he was the one weyrling that everyone would want in their Wing.”

Lowering his head, he closed his eyes for a few brief moments, leaning on Earith's presence in his mind for comfort. It never got any easier. The day it did would be the day he left the Weyr for good.

“We lost them both today. We all know that it happens. That not every weyrling survives long enough to join the Fighting Wings. As Weyrlingmaster, it's my job to ensure that I don't let my charges die needlessly. That a dragon doesn't fly her rider before she's strong enough to carry them, that they don't go _between_ before they're ready, that they don't face Thread before they have flame enough to sear it safely. That when a dragon and her rider leave their weyrlinghood behind them, it only happens when they're as ready as they can be, when they're responsible enough to be trusted in their new rank. / _We all of us fly with each other/_ , as Harper Talsker was so ably reminding us when I arrived.

"Not every dragonpair is equally well equipped for their future. L'rem and the rest of us worked sharding hard on getting his drill performance up to scratch. We knew not to expect perfection from him, and we gave him space to learn and room to recover from his mistakes. All L'rem needed was time: time to get those drills working on an instinctive level, time to build his confidence. What he _didn't_ need was conflicting instructions. He didn't need to be harassed unnecessarily, blamed for mistakes that weren't his fault, or rushed to correct them. And a lad who still lacked confidence in his own judgement certainly didn't need his dragon to be pushed to blink back to her peers when she was out of position, especially not when the visual she was offered took her right into the path of a _sharding clump!_ ”

He had almost everyone's attention now, and the cavern was quiet enough now that he could hear the roofspace echoing his shouted expletive back at him.

“No,” he said, dropping his voice back down to a more conversational volume, holding his audience's ears all the harder. “Some riders shouldn't be permitted to fight Thread. Some shouldn't be allowed to fly at all. And _some_ are so fardling useless that they're an insult to the dragon that loves them. Faranth help this Weyr, because she certainly wasn't watching over us the day _that_ clutch hatched!

“The responsibility is mine,” R'fint said, sighing. “To teach riders what they need to know, even if I have to beat it into them. To hold them back until they're ready. To limit the damage when there's no more I can do. The responsibility is mine,” he repeated, “and it's to my eternal shame and sorrow that I haven't done better by the rest of you. The Weyr should be in safer hands than-”

R'fint stopped, his train of thought interrupted by a titter from one of the better-placed tables at the side of the cavern. He hopped down from the Harper's platform and pushed quickly through the crowd. G'dil caught his eye warningly when he reached the table, but Delene's attention didn't waver from her weyrmate, not even when he leaned across the table towards her.

“You don't have the slightest idea that I've just been talking about _you_ , do you, _Weyrwoman?_ ” R'fint said scornfully. “And if there was ever a woman to merit the name less, I hope I never meet her!”

Delene's brows were creased in confusion as she finally looked his way.

“I doubt I'm alone in that sentiment. And I doubt there's anyone here who disagrees with it – no, not even G'dil! Why else would he be going to such lengths to distract you from what I was saying? Faranth, he's probably been thinking half of it himself; you've not done _his_ Wing any favours over the last few months, from what I've been hearing.”

“What?” G'dil's eyes darted guiltily back and forth between R'fint and his weyrmate; comprehension was slowly but surely dawning over her features, and anger surely wouldn't be long in following it. “No, Delene! I, ah...”

R'fint wasn't of the opinion that lying to Delene was likely to appease her, and even G'dil must have realised that it was only making him look even more of a deadglow than usual, because he briefly gave up on words, grabbed one of Delene's beringed hands, and patted the back of it reassuringly.

“The Weyrlingmaster's just a bit upset, that's all.”

“Upset! He just... he _can't_ say those things about _me_!”

“I commend your powers of observation, Wingleader,” R'fint said, scowling briefly at G'dil before turning the full force of his fury back at Delene. “If G'dil hasn't risked your pique by dragging you away before the flaming obvious truth burrows its way through the solid rock of your pretty, empty head, it's only because, deep down, he also knows that you need to hear this, _weyrwoman_. _Maenida_ would be more use in threadfall than you are right now! It's not my business to tell you what you may or may not get up to with the Fighting Wings, which threads you deign to char with your own carefully-manicured hands, or that fifty _turns_ back in the barracks wouldn't make a decent rider out of you, but unless Sh'vek says otherwise, as far as my Weyrlings are concerned _my word is law_.”

Delene was spluttering helplessly. R'fint straightened up, lifting his hands from the table. “I'll make this simple enough even for you, Delene. One,” he said, counting off on his fingers. “You will not come within a dragonlength of the barracks without my permission. Two. You will not interfere with my weyrlings, and you will not bespeak their dragons, in fall or otherwise. Three....”

And there he stopped, turned his back on her and started walking away.

“Three?” Delene echoed furiously.

“It's what _usually_ follows two, weyrwoman!” some smart-mouthed rider called out from across the cavern. Laughter rippled around the crowd in the wake of his words.

“Why push his luck?” someone else said. “Let's see if she can follow one and two first.”

Finally, finally, Delene found enough of her tongue to scream imprecations at R'fint's back. “You're finished here, brownrider! You can't speak to _me_ like that! When I...when I.... Why aren't you saying something G'dil? Doing something? Shard it, G'dil, it's not fair! I'm _Weyrwoman,_ you have to do what I want, and I want you to...argh! You're no better than he is! You're ALL no better than he is! When Sh'vek hears about this you'll regret it, all of you! And you, R'fint, you.... You're _through_ R'fint!”

“Yes, I am,” he said as he reached the exit to the bowl. He turned back to face the weyrfolk and Delene one last time. “Three. You can tell your Weyrleader to find another Weyrlingmaster for Linnebith's next clutch, because we are, indeed, very much _through_.”

 _Tell Ormaith it's done, Earith,_ he asked his dragon as he walked out into the night. _I've said my piece, and it he can make something worthwhile out of the mess I've left behind me he's a better man than I am._

Privately, very privately, R'fint had his doubts. Delene was what she was, no more and no less...but Sh'vek still had to work with her. There'd be a price for his work tonight...but hopefully it wouldn't be his weyrlings that paid it.


	16. Blind

H'koll, Weyrlingmaster's Assistant, walks into the room and scowls at the assembled weyrlings. The chaos rapidly abates as the boys scramble to their seats around the long table, which ought to have a neat pile of cured hides on top of it.

Not any more.

He looks across the room, and shakes his head. Some enterprising lad no doubt decided to make a grab for what he thought was the best quality hide, and a fight has broken out over the rest.

It's the same story every clutch.

Idiot boys are always too blind to pick out the good ones.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's H'koll time! Huzzah!


	17. Deaf

"Are you deaf, boy?" H'koll scowled, exasperated. "I swear, none of you listen to a word I say. One day I'm going to take you lackwits up on Ruarnoth, and have you use your own straps."  
  
He plucked the offending strap from the weyrling's grasp. "Think this'd hold your weight on a sharp turn, do you? Oh, it looks mighty pretty, but..." H'koll paused, and started to apply tension to the fancy leatherwork. It stretched alarmingly, the leather paling in the weakest spots, and then snapped with a loud crack.  
  
The weyrling blanched.  
  
"Ha. Heard that all right, didn't you?" 


	18. Earth

  
H'koll kicked out at the nearest rock, sending it tumbling into the ravine. Times like this, he could almost...  
  
 _No._  
  
 _Oh, Ruarnoth. I can still see them._  
  
  
D'rey and brown Pyrath, one of the more promising weyrling pairs. Spotting the stray Thread. Breaking out of the wing, fumbling with a sack of stone.  
  
They hadn't had anywhere near enough time for Pyrath to build up a flame.  
  
Ruarnoth and Alaireth both screaming warnings, Pyrath in the way of the Weyrwoman's flamethrower. Pyrath's wings tangling with the Thread... and then, disappearing between forever.  
  
All for a worthless piece of barren earth. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Of course, it's not always happy-fun-times. :-(


	19. Fire

Mid-pass, no dragon could carry enough firestone to last a full Threadfall, not and stay manoeuvrable enough to dodge Thread in the air.  
  
That was where the Weyrlings came in.  
  
H'koll scanned the skies above, watching out for any stray Threads that might threaten his circling Weyrlings, and waiting for Ruarnoth to pass on the next request. The decision would have to be made in an instant. Which inexperienced, defenceless Weyrling to send, to risk life and limb conveying firestone to the dangerous upper levels.  
  
It wasn't easy. But it had to be done, to keep the fighting wings flaming.  
  
  
  



	20. Air

H'koll reluctantly tore his eyes away from the two newest members of M'gan's wing, and tried to concentrate on Ruarnoth's own airspace. He got like this every time a weyrling class graduated to the fighting wings, fussing like an old wherry-hen over them. They'd do fine, whether he watched them every second or not.  
  
A sudden shouted warning sent Ruarnoth banking sharply, barely avoiding the clump they hadn't seen falling and the flaming blue in pursuit. Another ex-weyrling, of course.  
  
H'koll chuckled, and gratefully asked Ruarnoth to pass on their thanks. Yes, the new riders would do very well indeed. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spot the continuity error! Poor M'gan didn't survive _Regicide_ , but I'd completely forgotten that I'd already written him into the background of one of the later drabbles...


	21. Lightning

Standing alone in the downpour, he kicked at the smoldering embers, and felt like throwing up.  Throughout the long, hot summer, the Weyr had taken so much care fighting Thread over the tinder-dry woodlands.  Mis-timed flame or simple falling char could cause more damage than a single Thread-burrow, so they'd flown as high as they'd dared, catching every last Thread well before Telgar's extensive woodlands could be threatened.  
  
But the much-needed rains had arrived too late.  The first storms had brought high winds and lightning, nature's fury spreading devastation over many miles.  
  
All that effort, for nothing.   
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The POV character is unnamed in this one, so you'll have to take my word for it that it's F'ren. Aaaand that Telgar are sharing Threadfalls with High Reaches these days, with one Weyr picking up the other's extra fall on the rare days when Thread falls twice within one Weyr's territory. Or that I just got the Hold boundaries *shockingly* wrong...
> 
> (These drabbles were all written a very long time ago. August 2007 is the date on this one!)


	22. Water

The wingrider slithered down his dragon's flank and squelched across the bowl, leaving a trail of small puddles behind him.  "H'koll."  
  
The weyrlingmaster squinted through the drizzle.  "Even worse over Tillek then?"  
  
"Aye.  F'ren says they won't need your weyrlings today. Some Thread's getting through, but most's just drowned tar.  They've stone enough to last the Fall."  
  
H'koll nodded, and dismissed the disappointed weyrlings. These were distracting, unpredictable conditions, and as eager as the weyrlings were, there'd be better days for their first taste of Threadfall.  
  
Unblooded youngsters, all of them.  They'd get their chance to fight far too soon.  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> LOOK WHO'S HAD A PROMOTION!


	23. Fixed

D'merren sits on the ground, his eyes fixed on nothing at all. Jennulth's eyes, all whites and reds, seem to be the only part of this silent tableau that show any movement at all. Even the lad's breathing is shallow, as he wills his mind shut, sealing himself away from what they've witnessed.  
  
It takes the weyrlings like this, sometimes, the first time they stare death in the face.  
  
H'koll crouches beside him, letting Ruarnoth reassure the young blue as best she can, until one of the queens can help.  
  
"Lad? Look at me lad. You're back now, safe again."   
  
  



	24. Remembrance

  
The Pass had ended, gloriously... but the magnificence of that final battle would fade from memory all too soon.  
  
Forgetfulness was a blessing during the Pass.  
  
Not now.  
  
Not for those for whom there could be no forgetting, nor those alive only in memory.  
  
At sunset, he'd left the feast. Left his Weyrwoman, left his men, and climbed the long steps up to the Starstones. Westwards, the Red Star was a faint, unthreatening ember. Shuttering his glows, he'd waited for full dark.  
  
In the silence, he let the names and faces of the dead return.  
  
In silence, he remembered them.  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unidentified POV again...but it's still F'ren. 
> 
> Still alive, still Weyrleader...and well aware of what the Pass has cost.
> 
> Anyway, this is your happily-ever-after confirmation/closure drabble. Life only gets better after this.


End file.
